


If You're Payin' For Fun (A French Quarter's All You Need)

by silverlining99



Series: New Orleans [1]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-28
Updated: 2009-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 23:23:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/313306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverlining99/pseuds/silverlining99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long before movie events, McCoy and Chapel have a chance encounter in New Orleans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You're Payin' For Fun (A French Quarter's All You Need)

It seems like a good enough idea when her roommate sits up, hugs a pillow in her lap, and says, "This sucks, babe. New plan: you, me, Bourbon Street. And shut your mouth, you're not allowed to say no."

So what if so many of Emily's ideas seem good enough in the conception but less so in the execution. Christine pulls a face at her. "I would never."

"Please," Emily says, and throws the pillow at her. "You always, lately. But it's New Year's Eve, you deserve a celebration, and we are going to go have a fucking shitload of fun."

Sometimes - times like these, specifically - Christine's reminded of everything she's loved about Emily for more than three years. She's never been exactly sure *how* she lucked out so much with her roommate assignment freshman year, but she's also never liked looking a gift horse in the mouth and had long ago decided just to run with having a pushy pixie of a best friend, who understands Christine's reasons for hiding away in her own head sometimes but has the good sense to know exactly when to drag her right out of it.

Like now. They're at the tail end of the holidays and neither of them had family to go to, and even Christine is going a little stir-crazy at this point. "It's a zoo," she points out, with no real objection in her tone.

"All the better!" Emily grins and hops off her bed. "Move your ass, Chrissy, we're gettin' dolled up."

Which is how she winds up tripping into their favorite bar well after ten o'clock, immensely relieved to escape the crush in the street, revelers packed in so thick it took twenty minutes to make it just three blocks up from Canal. The guy at the door recognizes them both and settles strings of beads over their heads before stamping their hands. He winks at Christine, always one to flirt playfully with her. "You go drink up, dawlin'," he says easily. "Then come back and see me, hear?"

"Dream on, Daryl," she tells him, but gives him a fast hug before letting Emily drag her deeper into the bar. When she sees a table open along one of the walls, she shoves her jacket into Emily's hands. "Go grab that! I'll get you a drink."

Emily nods and slips off, elbowing her way through the crowd with more ease than Christine has getting to the bar. She sees a small but workable opening between two people and moves fast to try and wedge herself into it, but her ankle twists under her at the last second and she stumbles, jostles hard into the body next to hers. "Shit, shit, sorry!" she yelps as the guy's beer sloshes all over his hand and the surface of the bar. "I'm so sorry!"

"Relax, I think I'm gonna live," he says, but she's already stretching across the bar to snag a towel. "Really, it's not a big-"

Christine ignores him, plucks his glass out of his hand and sets it on the bar. "That was like, half your beer," she prattles, wiping at his fingers. "I'll get you--"

She looks up and stops short. The man in front of her is tall, solid, staring at her with a bemused expression and, she thinks with strange calmness, sort of undeniably handsome. Dark hair flopping over dark eyes, and she'd place him as a few years older than her even if he does have an intangible student vibe about him. "Another one," she finishes lamely. She realizes she's still gripping his hand with a damp rag and lets it go with a start, sets the towel across the bar to sop up some of the mess. "Ignore me, I'm --uh. Hey!" She gestures to the bartender and turns her attention, gratefully, to ordering drinks for her and Emily, and a replacement for him.

"You didn't need to do that."

"Yeah, well." She shrugs and gathers her two glasses, turns to slip back into the crowd. She takes a final, appreciative look and smiles, laughs a little. "I did anyway. Happy New Year!"

She takes advantage of the ambiguous no-man's-land between dancers and minglers to cut across the bar to the table Emily successfully snagged. "Someone you know?" Emily asks as Christine hands her one of the glasses and falls into a seat.

"Nah. I accidentally spilled his drink," she admits. "So."

"So." Emily raises her glass. "To you! The galaxy'd better watch out, if it knows what's good for it."

Christine laughs. "Whatever, Em. You've got an inflated idea of -"

"I'm living vicariously, sue me." She takes a long sip and stands up. "Watch our shit, I wanna dance for a few."

Settling back, Christine sips her drink slowly and lets her gaze roam over people, watching the way they interact, the way they cast off clues to who they are and what they're about. There are men on the prowl and women, too, sending out signals as loud as the live music, and there are clear groups of friends, just there for a good time.

And then there's her. She keeps catching glimpses of the guy at the bar, and every single time it seems like he's looking straight at her. Probably marveling, she thinks with a shade of darkness, at how anyone can manage to be so pathetic on one of the biggest party nights of the year.

It's a relief when Emily finally comes back, flushed and sweaty and glowing with energy, and flops down in her seat. "This is almost as bad as Valentine's Day," Christine complains halfheartedly, eying yet another couple swaying in a tight clinch to the beat of the music. "And definitely just as depressing."

"So un-depress it." Emily shrugs and lifts hair from her neck to help cool off. Easy for her, Christine thinks uncharitably; she's got a boyfriend due back in town within days. "You want fun, go dance. You want smooches, go ask someone."

"Yeah, like who? Everyone here is with someone already."

"That's not even true. And don't think I believe for one second you haven't noticed tall, dark and handsome down there. He's been staring at you since you were talking to him. Go see if he'll pucker up."

Christine very purposefully does not look in the direction of the bar, even as she wonders when the hell she became the kind of person to assume the *worst*, when someone shows any kind of interest in her. "I am not doing that," she says, more as a distraction than from any real objection. She recalls the glint of good humor in his eyes, the timbre of his voice, her immediate attraction.

Emily just laughs at her. "Go *on*, Chrissy, what's the harm?"

"He might be a psycho, for one thing?"

"And he might not be. I dare you."

"Oh my God, Emily, grow up!"

"Hell with you! And you know what, to hell with Pete, too. Asshole couldn't be bothered to stick around for the holiday, what do I owe him? *I'm* gonna do it."

Christine feels a lurch of unexpected annoyance, and the potential for some strange disappointment in her chest. "No!" She sighs as Emily sits back with a satisfied smile. "I'll do it, I'll do it." She looks towards the bar at last; the guy is perched on a stool and talking with his friend, gesturing emphatically about something with one hand, the other holding his beer atop his leg. He looks completed exasperated -- until he glances in her direction, sees her watching him, and the twist in his features slowly smooths into something Christine's no longer quite so sure how to interpret.

She's pretty damn sure Emily might have some ideas, of course. "Okay," she says, and turns her attention slowly, deliberately back to her roommate. "I know how to do this. Remind me that I know how to do this?"

"You *definitely* know how to do this. You are young and carefree and happy," Emily says, stabbing her finger into the tabletop to emphasize each point, "and you are going to finish your drink and go get another, and you are going to be the Christine I know you have tucked away in there."

"Which Christine would that be, exactly?"

"The one I don't want to throttle every five minutes for being a fucking downer." Emily smiles fondly at her and leans to kiss her forehead. "*Go*."

Christine pulls a face but stands obediently. "When he tells me to get lost, you're buying me about six drinks in a row," she says as she turns away. She tries not to look directly *at* that particular section of the bar even as she's mapping out the best possible path to it, through the growing crowd, but she keeps it in view, in the sphere of her awareness.

An arm snakes around her waist as she brushes past someone; she spins into the insistent tug and collides with a guy's chest. "Hey," he says with a broad smile. "You just gonna hurry on by?"

With a laugh, Christine lets her body fall into motion next to his, against his, in time with the music. "Not now I've got a reason to stop a second," she replies in good humor, and laughs again as he braves a sweeping pass of his hands across her back, over her ass, back up to settle on her hips and guide them in a gyration against his. He gets a little bolder the longer the music goes, his hands moving, teasing under the hem of her shirt, but Christine figures there's a line and he hasn't crossed it, so she lets it go.

When the song ends, the band breaks and the speakers begin blaring something recorded. Christine smiles and starts to step back, ready to pick back up on her trek to the bar. "That was fun," she offers. "Thanks!"

The guy doesn't let her go, just slides his hands back down over ass and tries to hitch her closer. "Don't run away so soon, baby--"

Christine rolls her eyes and presses her thumb deep into a soft point on his neck. "I'm not your baby and you just ruined a perfectly good time," she snaps. "Let me go."

With a scowl that's two parts pain, one part disgust, he releases her. "Bitch," he spits out.

She just raises her empty glass in mock salute. "Happy new year to you, too," she says tartly as she turns away, patting her pocket to make sure her ID and credit chips are still where they belong. "Asshole."

The crowd has loosened up with the break in live music, and she makes her way easily the rest of the way, sees with relief that there's a small opening *right* where she wants one -- and that this guy is watching her again, appraisingly. As she squeezes into the space next to him, she notes that he makes a show of raising his arm -- and the glass in his hand -- over her head, where she can't jostle it. "Just in case," he says when she glances up at it. He winks once she focuses on his face. "I don't want you going broke replacing my drinks."

She holds his eye for just a moment before turning smoothly to the bartender. "'Nother of these!" she calls, shaking her empty glass. She is distinctly aware of the intent gaze on her profile as she leans her elbows on the bar and taps out a rhythm with the credit chip tucked between two fingers.

The bartender, a cute young guy she hasn't seen working there before, steals her glass and replaces it with a full one. He mimics her posture and smiles broadly at her. "Taste it, sweet thing, make sure I haven't done you a bad one."

Laughing, Christine takes a sip, then pushes up onto her toes and lays a kiss on his cheek. "Perfect!"

With a mock sigh of relief, he swipes a rag across the bar and moves off, and Christine turns deliberately away from the guy as she pivots to lean her back against the bar. "Nice job, by the way," he comments, after a moment she spends keeping her attention carefully trained on the crowded floor.

"Sorry?"

"Losing the creep."

She shrugs. "Acquired skill. I've gotten good at it."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Now why on earth," she says lightly, tilting and tipping her head to peer at him, "would you need to keep that in mind?"

He gives her a wry smile. "Common sense says never forget a woman who can make you hurt."

"Hm. Good idea." She jumps, startled, as the bartender taps her on the shoulder. When she turns around he holds up a shot of tequila, offers a bowl of lime slices when she grins and accepts. "You angling for one on the other cheek?" she suggests.

"That smile's enough for me. You enjoy yourself!"

Christine rubs her hands together in delight. "Hold this!" she shouts, and shoves her drink into the guy's hand so she can lick her own, sprinkle salt, and ready a lime for the quick sequence of taking her shot. She makes sure to draw out the drag of her tongue across her skin, and tries not to grimace at the sharp bite of lime. "Holy shit," she says when she's done. "He gave me the good stuff."

"Without even ordering it," he remarks curiously, giving her cup back. "Unless you're a telepath."

"No way!" She looks up and smirks, then presses her thumb to her lips and sucks traces of lime juice from the pad. She decides she likes the way his eyes focus on her mouth, dark and fixated. "That was just a lagniappe, sort of. God, you haven't been here long, have you?"

"Came in today," he agrees. "It was a what?"

"Never mind. He was just being nice. Giving me a freebie? It's a thing, don't worry about it." She finds the part, this light and coy and flirtatious part, easier and easier to play the longer she sticks at it. God, she thinks, annoyed at herself, but she really has been way too serious about everything lately. "So I guess we should probably get down to business."

He leans his elbow on the bar, hip cocked out to accommodate his height. "We have business?"

"Oh, you know damn well I came over here for a reason," she says tartly, gearing herself up. "Listen, mister, I'm a girl on a dare. Don't mess with me."

His brows, she notices distractedly, really do the absolute funniest of things. "What's the dare?" he asks curiously.

"I have to ask you to kiss me at midnight." He just stares at her, silent. "Well?"

"Well, *what*? You didn't ask."

Christine narrows her eyes and motions to the bartender; in an instant, she's traded him a swipe of her credit chip for another shot and a fresh slice of lime. "You know," she says, and takes a moment to drink, and bite down, and shake her head to clear her watering eyes, "you're kind of rude. I don't think I want to ask you anymore."

"So you *wanted* to ask," he says. "Not much of a dare, if you wanted to do it in the first place."

"Wow, and a cocky-ass son-of-a-bitch, to boot," she says blandly. "So. You wanna kiss me at midnight, or what?"

"Do I want to or will I?"

"Either. Both."

"Want to is a yes. Will I ... no," he replies. "'Fraid not, sorry."

Christine stares at him, taken aback. "No," she echoes. "Mind if I ask why the hell not?"

He laughs quietly, his head ducking briefly as he chuckles down towards his beer. "You don't hold anything back, do you?"

"Waste of time, night like this," she says impatiently. "Don't try to distract me, either. What gives? You've been staring at me for like, ages. You totally want to kiss me!"

"I already admitted that," he points out.

"So what's the problem?"

He sets his glass down on the bar and shifts -- intentionally, insinuatingly, intimidatingly -- closer. "The problem," he says, leaning in close so he can speak more quietly but still be heard over the music, "is that it turns out you're not all that nice."

Christine frowns indignantly. "I am so!"

"Not if you mean to make me wait another twenty minutes, you're not."

She smiles a little, and then a little more at the answering tug of his lips. "So you only kiss nice girls, is what you're saying."

He settles a hand on her waist, right over the wide, low waistband of her jeans, and his thumb moves slowly across her hip, across the skin left bare by her too-short top. "Exclusively," he confirms, and he's not looking at anything *but* her lips.

Christine wets them quickly, drags the lower one back with her teeth. "You're in luck, then," she says, and hopes he doesn't pick up on the tiny tremor she can *feel* in her voice. "'Cause you can just rest assured, I am sweet as pie."

"Yeah?"

"Oh, yeah," she promises.

His mouth touches against hers then, soft, gentle, and he slides his hand around her back, palm broad across her spine, and brings the other up to cradle the base of her skull. Christine closes the last bit of distance between their bodies, pushes up on to her toes and presses against him just as his tongue slides across her lip. She tilts her head and meets it with her own, quick flirtations of slick heat in short, punctuated kisses. "See?" she says, settling back down on her heels.

He watches her with dark eyes. "I think I'm getting the picture," he agrees, and settles both hands on her hips, flicks a glance at her still-full glass. "You're done with that?" She nods slowly, not quite sure what he's getting at but suddenly, perfectly certain that any other answer would be a terrible idea. He looks over her shoulder and then moves her easily, edging her away from the bar and guiding her backwards.

Her back hits something solid and she finds that he's wedged her into the cramped corner where an ancient old jukebox sits flush against the wall. "This okay?"

"Not yet," she says. "You're still talking." She starts to lift her gaze back to him and there, he's right there, his mouth is on hers, he's kissing her with depth and heat and intent. She winds her arms around his neck and gives as good as she gets, hungry for it, desperate for every firm sweep of his tongue, every stroke of his hands up and down her back, under her shirt, over the denim covering her ass.

Everything else, she loses track of. His leg wedges between her thighs and lifts, giving her somewhere to focus the restless *want* building up. His mouth burns trails across her skin. "What's your name?" he mumbles eventually.

She laughs at the absurdity of it. "Christine. What the hell is yours?"

He huffs a breath of amusement against her neck. "Leonard. Nice to meet you, Christine."

"You, too." Twisting her fingers in his hair, she hesitates when he moves to catch her mouth again. "So hey." She turns her face away. "We have to stop."

His lips wander across her cheekbone. "Do we really?"

"*Yes*. Otherwise," she points out patiently, laughing as his tongue teases behind her ear, "it won't be getting a kiss at midnight. It'll just be *still* kissing at midnight, and there's nothing special about that at all."

"I don't know," he says quietly. His fingers play idly with strands of hair at her temple, brushing them out of the way in short strokes. "I'd say kissing you anytime is pretty damn special."

Christine laughs again, just a little weakly. He can't be for real, she thinks, he just can't. "You don't really have to sweet-talk me, in case you didn't pick up on that."

"I don't *do* sweet-talk, honey. I can't help it if the plain and simple truth gets you all weak in the knees."

"Fuck me, but you're a charmer."

"Wrong again." He smirks, pushes closer briefly, a quick, promising nudge of his hips. "You'd sing a different tune if I told you everything that's on my mind."

Oh, but that sounds interesting. She's hovering right on the razor's edge of a perfect buzz, happy but able to think, and she's just come through the most grueling few months of her life, and he's looking at her like he wants to give her everything she hasn't had time for and wants, suddenly, desperately. "Try me," she invites, her heart pounding.

"I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"I haven't gotten my kiss yet."

She thumps him in the chest. "You just got a whole fucking handful of them!"

With a warning look, he catches her hand. His fingers link through hers; he stretches her arm over her head and presses her knuckles to the wall. "Not the one you promised me at midnight, I didn't."

"Hey now, I never *promised* you anything --"

"All the more reason for me to watch my step," he says smoothly. "Got a good look at what you do to assholes who piss you off, and I'd rather stay in your good graces awhile longer."

"You're on thin ice as it is, buster," she grumbles, but then smiles. "You know, I think you got the wrong idea about that."

"Oh? What idea should I get from seeing a grown man look like he's about to cry?"

"For starters," she says, and she twists her hand free to slide her arms up around his neck, tips his head down with one hand tangled in his hair at the same time she cranes up to kiss him again, "he was taking liberties. You're taking an invitation." He returns her quick kisses, the brief touches of her tongue to his. "And he was feeding me lines -- bad ones. I'll take honesty over slick moves any day, okay? At least that lets me know where I really stand. Now tell me."

"*Fine*," he says roughly. His fingers twist in her own hair and tilt her head far back, and he licks the taut, exposed arc of her throat before nuzzling behind her ear and inhaling deeply. "I want to touch you. I want to taste you, and I want to get you so strung out you won't know up from down or give a damn, anyway." He sucks briefly on her earlobe, worries it with his teeth. "I want to make you beg and *then* -- then I want to fuck you like I'm willing to bet you've never been fucked before."

Christine's mind grinds to a halt. For a moment, she can't do anything but stare at him. She's done the bar scene for years, has grown used to quick flings and one night stands, to guys who think they're so smooth with their practiced lines about baby, they wanna make her feel so good, and to crass assholes who raise red flags that tell her to get gone, fast. She's thought herself fairly good at it.

She's never met anyone like this, though, anyone offering her the sort of dark-edged promises that would scare her if not tempered by the carefulness of his touch, the shades of genuine kindness she thinks she sees lurking behind his dark eyes and tendency to scowl.

It's confusing as all hell.

In the face of her silence, her expression, his lips twist in a rueful smile. He presses his lips lightly to her forehead and then his hands ease up on her, his body starts to draw back. The last piece falls into place, his response to what even resembles rejection, and she decides. "Leonard," she says seriously, touching one hand to his chest. "Look, I'm really sorry if I gave you the wrong idea --"

"You don't need to -"

"-- but I've never begged for a thing in my life."

She wants to laugh at the way his brows knit in confusion, in wary calculation. "You haven't," he says flatly.

"Nope. Don't plan to start, either. You're more than welcome to try -- I just don't want you getting your hopes too high on that point." She reaches up and flicks a lock of hair off his forehead. "That was a yes, by the way. Which I'm saying now, before those drinks hit. You strike me as the kind of guy to get all weird about taking advantage, so we should probably be clear on that."

"You..." He shakes his head. "Jesus Christ."

"He's not invited." Christine runs her hands up and down his biceps, and across his chest, and around his back. She smirks playfully. "Hey, no pressure. I don't want to push you into anything you're not sure about --"

At last his body pushes back against hers. He grips her chin and pauses, poised with his lips tantalizing close to hers. "Honey," he says firmly, "I've been sure from the second I saw you that you in my bed would be about the best start to the year I could possibly imagine."

Christine hopes like crazy that her bright smile distracts him from the flush she can feel creeping up her throat. "Great, then," she says. "So since we're clear on everything, I'm gonna have another drink."

He laughs and finally kisses her, quick and sweet. "Don't have too much. I don't want you passing out before I get that begging out of you."

"Delusionally optimistic. I like that," she says, satisfied. She pats his stomach. "C'mon, be a gentleman and buy me a drink already. It's the least you can do since I'm gonna put out and everything."

When she starts to step around him, he keeps her trapped and kisses her once more. "We could leave now," he suggests. "We could just...go."

"Be patient," she says lightly, but flushes at his eagerness. He groans but lets her go and steps back. "I need to find my friend, anyway." She glances towards the table where she left Emily, sees it crammed full of people she doesn't know. "Shit."

Leonard's palm settles warmly against the small of her back, guides her into turning a different direction. "There she is. Go ahead. I'm gonna let my friends know I'm leaving and I'll bring you that drink."

Emily has tucked herself into a spot at the far end of the bar; she's managed to find people she knows and is playing dice. "Motherfucker," she says mildly, losing just as Christine squeezes in next to her. "Hi, sweetie. Bored already? That doesn't bode well."

"Quiet, you. Hey -- I didn't have much. Check me."

Emily looks at her sharply, peers into her eyes and, after a long second, nods decisively. "Okay. Sure thing?"

"We'll see. Just wanted to let you know before it was too late."

"Good job. Where's he at?"

"Friends, drinks, you know." Christine sighs and rests her head on Emily's shoulder. "Lemme play."

Emily passes her the cup so she can shake out a roll. "Don't forget I need collateral," she adds, as Christine plays through her set and busts out. "Ah, crap luck."

She stays slumped against Emily, playing idly, until the music suddenly dies down and the crowd starts counting down from ten. At the realization of what time it is, Christine frowns and looks quickly around, then jumps when hands grip her waist firmly and spin her around. Leonard brushes hair from her face and smirks. "Looking for me?"

"Cutting it close," she replies. She slips her arms around his neck and smiles. "Three... two... one."

"Happy new year," he says, and his lips touch hers.

She tunes out the laughter and the cheers and everything else, everything but the heat of his mouth and the strength of his arms and the solid wall of his body. He eases off slowly; his fingers trail up and down the exposed skin of her lower back, stroking along her spine. "I thought maybe we could get out of here instead of having that drink," he murmurs in her ear. "I want you."

Christine freezes, and his hand stills. She takes a ragged breath and then fishes swiftly in his back pocket, emerges with his wallet, and slaps it on the bar in front of Emily before he can grab it back. "Hey, what the hell --"

She presses a finger to his lips. "Just hold on a second."

Emily rubs her hands together in delight and scoops up the wallet. "So," she says, starting to rifle through it, "have we established that he's not a psycho? No, wait, I don't trust you." She glances at Leonard. "You're not a psycho, are you?"

His laugh jostles Christine's cheek on his chest. "No."

"Yeah," Emily snorts, "like I'd believe anything you say."

"Then why the hell'd you ask?" he mutters. Emily just rolls her eyes. Christine snickers and rubs his back reassuringly.

Emily pulls a card out. "A-ha," she says, and looks impressed. "Interesting."

"What?" Christine demands. She tries to pull away to see, but Leonard tugs her back in, tight against him. "What is it?"

"Just found my security deposit," Emily says sweetly, and shoves the card down the front of her shirt, tucking it into her bra. She snaps his wallet shut and hands it to him. "You can have it back when you bring her home safe and sound, a'right? Otherwise the cops get it."

"Don't lose it," Leonard growls. "It's a goddamn pain in the ass to replace that thing."

"What *is* it?" Christine insists.

"Just my student ID."

"Your sweetie here," Emily adds, eying Leonard speculatively, "goes to University of Mississippi School of Medicine. Very appropriate catch, Chrissy."

Leonard snorts. "Chrissy?"

"That's Christine to you, buddy," she says, tipping her head back to look up at him with a small smile. "You're gonna be a doctor? I'm gonna be a nurse."

He palms her cheek and guides her mouth to his. "A nurse, huh?" he murmurs. "Why do I suspect you'll have trouble taking direction on the job?"

"Because you are completely judgmental and unfair," she mumbles against his lips. "Geez, sass a guy once or twice and he gets all insulting. Baby."

"Brat," he returns. He brushes her hair aside to kiss the slope of her shoulder, all the way up to her ear. "Doesn't matter," he rumbles quietly. "We'll see soon enough if you can follow instructions." Christine's breath catches in her throat and she trembles. He laughs. "Ready?"

"Uh-huh," she says weakly. "Night, Em."

"*Noon*, Chris," Emily replies sternly.

  
On the way out, one hand swallowed up by Leonard's, Christine snags the go-cup full of hurricane that Daryl holds out with a smile and his customary wink. The street is still insanely crowded, but it's a little easier than it was earlier to follow in his wake as Leonard pulls her along, up a block and finally, mercifully, onto a side street with plenty of open space, room to breathe. She pulls up to his side and links her arm through his, sips slowly at her drink. "How far are you?"

"Just another block." He steals the cup straight away from her lips and drinks half the contents down in one gulp. "Any chance she'll actually still have my damn ID tomorrow?"

"Count on it." Christine swings her step to the side, bumps her body against his and wrangles her drink back. "And she's very punctual. Cops get called at twelve on the dot. So. A doctor, huh?"

"Just about. Where are you going to nursing school?"

"Starfleet," she offers, and drops the empty cup onto the street to join the rest of the scattered debris. "My admission came through the other day. I start in the fall."

"Really?" He slips his arm around her shoulders, shields her neck from the cold breeze blowing against their backs. "Starfleet. Hmph."

She laughs. "What's the matter, not a fan of the good ol' final frontier?"

"More like the mode of transportation to get there," he says dryly. "Pigs're better with flight than I am."

"Nothing wrong with keeping your feet on solid ground." She reaches up and links her fingers with his. "But me? I want to see what's out there. And I want to be a nurse, so... Starfleet Nursing Academy, here I come."

"Adventurous of you, I suppose." He draws to a slow stop outside a brightly-lit hotel entrance and turns her to face him. His hands, cold and dry, frame her cheeks as he looks down at her. His lips compress briefly. "Christine...are you drunk?"

She smiles slowly. "Nope."

"Hm."

"What's the problem? Let's go in already."

He shrugs. "Just trying to figure out where I am on feeling really guilty about this tomorrow."

Christine frowns. "You're dangerously close to being a total moron, is where you are. Could you at least do it inside? It's cold."

Leonard maneuvers her against the side of the building and leans into her, pins her to the stone wall. "No, we can't. The second I get you within tossing distance of a bed all bets are off, understand?" Her breath catches and he ducks his head to kiss her neck. "Don't get me wrong," he mutters. "I'll stay out here with you until the goddamn sun comes up, if that's what it takes to be sure this is what you really want."

Christine lets her head fall back to expose more of her throat to his wandering mouth, to his lips and teeth and tongue. "I already *told* you it is."

"Could have changed your mind."

"I *didn't*."

"Christine -"

"Leonard. At the risk of sounding easy? You're not exactly the very first guy I've ever decided to leave a bar with. Trust me, Em knows my tolerance and she'd never have let me out of her sight if she had to worry about me doing something I'd regret. I know what I want, and I know I want it with you." He presses even closer at that and sucks harder at her neck, makes a low noise that sends a shiver down her spine. His hand slides down the back of one leg and jerks it up, to his hip. He pushes at her, hard inside his jeans. "Ohh.... Okay, okay. Listen, this is -- *shit* -- this is important. I don't care if it's your fingers or your tongue or your dick or your fucking big toe, but if you're not fucking me with *something* really, really soon, we are going to have words."

He bites down gently, makes a dull ache radiate pleasantly through her shoulder. "Strike the toe and I think we could have a deal on all of the above."

"So you do have your limits," she teases, and laughs as he grabs her hand and tugs her towards the entrance. "That's too bad."

He just shakes her head and pulls her through a small lobby, up a twisting staircase to the second floor. He only releases her hand to unlock the door of his room. Inside, he shrugs out of his coat and empties the pockets of his jeans onto the bedside table, then glances at her. "Have a seat," he invites, and ducks into the bathroom.

Christine looks around the small, simple room; it's all old-fashioned styling, carved wood furniture and heavy upholstery and a bed piled with pillows. The armchair has clothes laid neatly across the back of it. The sink runs and a second later Leonard returns. Christine smiles and slips around him. "My turn."

When she comes back out, he hands her a cold bottle of water. "Drink this," he instructs. She tips it back obediently, gulps down half of it. "Feel okay?"

"I feel great," she says. She sets the water down on the bureau and steps close, toys with his top button. "Bet I could feel even better, though."

"Yeah?" He ducks his head and nips teasingly at her lower lip. "Take your clothes off. I want to see you."

"You don't want to do it?"

He pulls her hands from his shirt and moves back, leans casually against the bureau, skims his gaze up and down her body. "Nope."

Christine can't help the widening of her smile, or the flare of warmth in her cheeks. She watches him closely as she catches the hem of her shirt and begins peeling it slowly up her torso, holds his gaze until she has to drag the fabric over her head. When she shakes her hair out and looks at him again, his eyes are dark and fixed on her chest, on the black lace cups of her bra. "Jeans," he orders quietly.

She drops her shirt to the floor and moves her fingers obediently to the button at her waist, toeing out of her shoes at the same time so that she can kick the denim free after easing it down. Her underwear isn't a set but she's at least matched colors, a fact that makes her stupidly relieved as she stands in front of him, stripped down to bare scraps. "Christ," he mutters, and rubs himself through his own jeans. "You're just..."

"What?" Christine tilts her head to the side and gazes at him seriously. She feels the sudden need to know what he was going to say. "Out with it."

He flicks open the top few buttons of his shirt and drags it off, drops his hands to his belt. "Too goddamn good to be true, is what you are." The buckle clicks loudly as he loosens it. Christine steps forward and sets her hand on his, stops him. "What's wrong?"

She leans in to kiss his chest, swirls her tongue around one nipple and then bites it gently. He sucks in a sharp, hissing breath. "You're being sweet again, that's all," she says, and sinks slowly to her knees. She takes off his shoes, one at the time, and his socks, before reaching up and dragging his jeans and shorts down. He hisses as his cock springs free, thick and heavy and flush, and he wraps a hand around it, strokes slowly while Christine eases his feet loose.

She doesn't stand. Silently, sparing a quick glance up at the tense set of his face, she stills his hand and carefully pries his fingers loose. "Christine," he bites out, but she ignores him, takes him a firm grip. "Honey, you don't --"

He breaks off as she swipes her tongue quickly over the tip before sliding her mouth down over him and sucking in a gentle, drawn-out pull of pressure that lasts until she lets go with a wet popping sound. "Sorry. You were saying?"

He stares down at her, traces fingertips along her cheekbones until he reaches her hair and scrapes it back, gathers it in a loose, fisted ponytail. "Nothing. I didn't say a word."

"Good." Satisfied, she lets herself take a long, contemplative look at the jutting length of his cock before pushing it up against his stomach and ducking in to play her tongue over his balls. With a muffled curse, he widens his stance to accommodate her. She spends several minutes right there, teasing and sucking, then finally drags just the tip of her tongue up along the shaft and takes him in again.

His hips move in well-restrained jerks as she works him with her mouth and hand; she can tell he's having a hard time *not* just thrusting forward. To thank him for his effort she takes as much of him as she can, flattening her tongue and letting his tiny movements bump the head against the back of her throat. She can't take him further, hasn't ever had the slightest idea how to do *that*, but she's got a fairly well controlled gag reflex and no problem turning the tables on him, gradually slowing her own movements at the same time she starts pulling subtly at his hips, urging him forward, until without meaning to he *is* pushing into her mouth on his own, gentle but without a doubt controlling it.

When he does realize it he goes abruptly still. Christine curls her tongue along the underside of his cock and sucks firmly, and he groans. "Wait, stop, you have to -- ah, *fuck*." He pushes at her shoulders. "Damn it, woman, have some mercy."

She sits back on her heels and smirks up at him. "I thought I was supposed to be the one begging?"

His face twists darkly. For a second she worries she's angered him, but when he speaks she realizes he's struggling not to laugh. "And to think, I *was* gonna let you slide with a single please."

"Oh, were you. And now?"

"Come here," he says gently, slipping his hands under her arms to pull her up. She slides up along his body and starts to wrap an arm around his neck, to latch her mouth onto the opposite side, but doesn't resist when he turns her slowly around and maneuvers her to face the mirror, draws her back against his chest. He splays his palms wide across her stomach and touches her in broad strokes. Christine stares into the mirror hung over the dresser, stares at her flushed cheeks and swollen lips and drink-dulled eyes, and she lets her head fall back on his shoulder, watches him duck his head to lay a string of light kisses along her shoulder.

His hands slip behind her, deft fingers releasing the clasps of her bra and then sliding to ease it from her shoulders. "God, look at you," he whispers in her ear, wrapping her close again. "So goddamn beautiful..." He crosses an arm over to palm a breast in one hand, drags the fingers of his other along the waist of her panties just below the tiny swell of her belly, dips them under the elastic, inches his hand low until he's cupping her firmly. The fabric stretches across his knuckles. His cock presses against her back, still wet from her mouth, and she's torn between which direction she wants to go, what she wants to rub against more.

She holds still. It's an imperfect compromise, but she's at a loss. He traces the tip of his tongue alone the shell of her ear, nips a little at the cartilage. She trembles. "Do you even know what I'm gonna do to you, sweetheart?" he says darkly, and just his middle finger hooks up, slides against her with ease.

Christine wonders what he would do if she told him just how long she's been aching for him to do *something*.

She moans softly instead. His finger rubs lazily, alternating strokes and circles, teasing. The hand on her breast squeezes lightly and he pinches her nipple, makes her jerk in his grasp. A low laugh escapes him. "That's the gist of it, yes." He gives her a little more pressure and she squirms down into it. Her hips have taken on a mind of their own. "I'm going to make you scream," he adds. He tightens his grip on her and she can't move, can't do anything but submit to the push of his fingers as they catch and spread moisture and exert pressure on her clit in firm, unpredictable motions. "You *are* going to beg."

The unsettling thought occurs to her to ask for what: for more, or for him to stop. She pushes it away and meets his gaze in the mirror. She licks her lips. "What'd I tell you about those fingers, Leonard?" she asks. She means to hit a coy, tart tone; it comes out a little too breathless to carry much weight.

Still, it elicits a groan from him. He sucks hard on her shoulder and roughens his touch, and she rocks her hips into it because her hips are about the only part of her body she can move freely. "I don't think it's my fingers you want," he says. "Is it?"

"I wouldn't say no to them."

"I bet you wouldn't say no to a burger, either, if we're talking about things that aren't going to do a damn thing to satisfy you." He takes his hand away abruptly, cruelly, and lets her go, lets her slump forward, gasping and annoyed. By the time she whirls around, a complaint on the tip of her tongue, he's moving away. "Lie down," he tosses over his shoulder, with a casualness she resents. It makes her obstinate, makes her stay still and frown at his back as he goes and adjusts the light settings, swapping the overheads for the muted corner lamps. When he turns back and sees her where he left her, he frowns right back. "You deaf? I said, lie down. And take those damn things off before you do."

For a moment she holds his challenging gaze, tempted to push, to try to win whatever battle her mind is chasing. But reason wins out at last, thankfully. She thumbs her panties slowly down her thighs, lets them fall.

Seeing him suck in a sharp breath and lick his lips is, at least, a balm of its own.

Christine goes to the bed and tugs down the blankets before climbing onto it. The mattress is soft and old, sagging towards the center, a cradle to sink her weight into. "I can't believe you had the nerve to say *I'm* not nice," she mentions.

He chuckles on his approach, shakes his head as he crawls in after her and straddles her legs. "Difference is, I never claimed to be." Her breathes catches automatically, instinctively, and his smile fades slowly. He leans down and brushes his lips to hers, licks his way in briefly before lifting upright again. "Close your eyes," he murmurs. "Trust me."

"I don't know you."

"Take a chance and do it anyway." His voice is dry, amused. "You're here already. Might as well."

She does as he asks, lets her lids slip shut. Even lying down she feels lightheaded and unanchored, like the slightest wrong move could make her float away. His weight shifts a little on her thighs and then his fingers graze her face, sliding from her temples down over her cheeks, palms framing her jaw. One thumb passes across her lips; she moves quickly to nip at the pad and flick her tongue out. He just laughs quietly and continues on his way, drags his hands along her throat -- she tenses, just a little, but he moves on to her shoulders without so much as lingering. "Relax," he murmurs, and his fingertips curl firmly against her muscles, massaging for a second before he keeps going.

When he reaches her breasts he stops, just cups them in his warm hands. In the stillness all she can hear is her breath, and his, and the muffled noise of partying in the street below. "Very nice," he says at last.

Christine smiles, keeps her eyes closed. "Just nice? Way to flatter a girl."

His lips brush one nipple, lightly. "If I told you everything I'm thinking, your ego would never deflate. And I told you, I like nice."

"I don't think you do." Slipping her fingers through his hair, she arches up into the draw of his mouth. "You keep giving me the impression you like a little...wickedness."

His chuckle vibrates into her. His teeth scrape tantalizingly. "Maybe I just like it when you *start* nice. Makes it that much better when I get you to say things'd get you thrown out of church."

His body shifts then, the hard length of his cock dragging across her belly, a promise or a taunt or some combination of the two, and when she lifts up against it he groans, moves to knee her thighs apart and settle between them. With a few pushes of his hips he situates himself against her clit and rocks slowly, matches each nudge to a hard suck on one nipple, and the other, and the soft flesh of her breasts.

Christine moans. She snakes a hand between them, intending just to touch, to satisfy the ache, and winds up trying to guide his cock, to get it *in* already. He grabs her wrist and jerks her hand away in a flash, pushes it roughly to the mattress beside her. "Do that again," he says, never lifting his lips from her breast, "and we're done."

She tries to pry her arm free. His fingers tighten, just on the edge of being too much. She curls her free hand into a frustrated fist. "You wouldn't."

At that he does lift his head, to look her dead on. Everything in his expression, from his frown to his narrowed eyes, says he's absolutely serious, but something flickers quickly and she knows without a doubt that he's full of it, that he's playing her as surely with his attitude as he is with his hands and his mouth. Still, he pushes the issue. "Don't bet on that," he grumbles, and guides her hands one at a time to the slats of the headboard. "I strongly suggest you don't let go until I tell you."

She sighs dramatically. "Fine, fine. Just trying to help you out with this losing battle you're fighting."

Returning his attentions to her chest, his fingers stroking lightly down her sides, he huffs out a laugh. "I'm not going to lose."

"You-- *ah*!" she gasps, as he suddenly hitches his hips to hers without warning and plunges deep, proceeds to give her several long, hard thrusts. Clinging to the headboard, she tries to wrap her legs around him and shimmy them higher, urge him on, but he pulls out before she can get any traction. "Fucking *bastard*."

He tosses her an unconcerned glance as he shifts, lips marking a trail down her torso. "What's wrong, sweetheart? Getting a little desperate there?"

She grits her teeth, shudders at his fingers parting her, brushing lightly over her clit. "Don't-- don't you worry about me."

"I'm not a bit worried. You're a smart girl. You know what'll get you what you want." With that he settles his mouth over her, a soft, suckling heat that twists her up, low in her belly, makes her ache even more. He makes a quiet, satisfied sound and she moans in response, rubs her feet along the sides of his back, curls her toes in. He draws back and blows a cool stream of air; Christine whines in frustration and tightens her grip on the headboard. "Any time you're ready, baby."

"Don't call me that," she says automatically.

He glances up at her and his eyes narrow thoughtfully, and he crawls slowly back up her body until he's able to brush his nose playfully against her cheek. "You're sure about that?"

Christine cranes her neck and tries to kiss him, but he dodges. "I really hope you noticed that I am in fact all grown up."

Leonard palms one of her breasts. "Definitely caught that."

"Good, so you're neither blind nor a pervert."

"Nope. Still gonna call you baby, though. You like it." He kisses her, long and deep, tasting of her, until she winds her arms around him and he grins against her lips. "*Hands*."

She bites quickly at his lower lip but moves her hands back over her head. "Bossy fucker. I do not."

"You do. I can tell." He dips his tongue into the hollow of her throat, drags it down her breastbone. "See, like this: soon as you give in, baby, I'll fuck you senseless."

She feels taut, strung like a bow, as she shivers and arches up against his roaming mouth. "Why wait?" she gasps. "I know you want to."

"Badly," he agrees, easing back down across the plane of her stomach. "But I'm a patient guy. This is worth it."

"Is it?"

"More than." He pushes her legs wide and goes after her in earnest, his tongue sliding everywhere, exploring, tasting, in between concerted attacks on her clit that make her muscles tense and tremble and her fingers curl tightly on the headboard. He keeps lengthening the duration of his focused attentions, getting her closer and closer each time before easing off and letting her wind back down.

And finally, when she's right -- she's *right* there, right on the verge, he draws away yet again, breathes hard against her leg.

Part of her absolutely wants to murder him.

But a larger part just *wants* him. "Leonard," she gasps instead, eyes fixed on the ceiling. She risks letting go of the headboard and dropping her hands to sink her fingers into his hair. "*Please*. I give up, you fucking *win*, just *please*, I can't take it anymore."

His satisfied groan vibrates into her thigh before his mouth slides back into place, lips and tongue working her feverishly. He scoops his arms under her thighs and curls them around the outsides, hugs her legs down against his shoulders, and Christine scrabbles with her feet for purchase she can't quite find, not on his back or on the bed. She can't even care. She feels like a rope under his mouth, twisting tighter and tighter, looping in on herself, and as soon as he slips two fingers into her and rubs them carefully upwards she spins free with a loud wail, arching hard off the bed.

"Oh my god," she gasps, collapsing bonelessly and twitching slightly around his fingers. "Oh, thank fucking god, thank you, I needed...wow."

Leonard chuckles quietly. He's slow about making his way up her body, pausing frequently to focus attentions on her hip, her naval, a random spot below her ribs, her breasts. By the time he kisses her chin, and then her mouth, her breathing has slowed and evened. She wraps her arms lazily around him. "Pleased with yourself?" she mumbles.

"Inordinately, yeah."

He laughs against her lips, which sets her to giggling, and somehow in the midst of it she misses him sliding slowly into her, doesn't notice until he's settled deep and rocking slowly. "Oh jesus. Oh God. Fucking *hell*, that's good."

"One of those things is not like the others, sweetheart," he says dryly, and she can't stop *laughing*, she feels ridiculous, and while she's shaking with amusement he guides her legs to grip high around his waist, then slowly rolls them both onto their sides. "Okay?"

She snakes her arm under his neck, wraps the other around his back, wiggles a little to get comfortably pressed close against him. "Perfect," she whispers, and he kisses her wetly, messily, and begins moving in slow, long strokes. She feels tighter than earlier, more swollen around him, and every thrust threatens to ratchet her up again, already. She whimpers and tucks her face against his shoulder, clings tightly to him as he moves, as his cock rubs thickly inside her, as she gives herself over to the sensation of being impaled again, and again, and again. Her orgasm, when it comes, trips along her spine and makes her jerk helplessly against him.

"Good girl," he chokes out as she tightens convulsively around him. "So -- jesus, so fucking good, you're so --"

"Fuck me," she blurts, and seeks out his mouth. "Just do it, fuck me, I want you to --"

Leonard groans and eases her onto her back. She clutches at his lower back, feels the taut play of muscles under her palms as his hips snap quickly. "Yes," he mutters, in between scattered, deep kisses, "yes, damn it, that's - that's good, *fuck*, yes..."

Christine grabs a handful of his hair and kisses him hard and snakes her other hand low, strokes her fingertips behind his balls, clenches hard around his cock. He grunts harshly and slams into her one last time, rides it out in shorter, smoother thrusts. "Holy fucking christ," he breathes against her lips, going still. He pulls out and shifts off her, sprawls on his back. "Goddamn."

She laughs weakly and sits up slowly. "Thrown out of church, you said?" She glances at him before dropping her feet onto the floor and heading for the bathroom. "Good thing I'm not religious or I'd be worried about both our souls about now."

His answering chuckle drifts in after her. She can't keep from smiling.

He welcomes her back into bed with an arm lifting the blankets for her to slide under, and once she's comfortable he presses close against her back. "This good?"

"Perfect," she admits, and lets herself relax into sleep.

She stirs when the first light of dawn is filtering in the window, melting easily into the soft light of the lamps that still burn. It takes her a second to remember where she is, that she's not just easing out of a dream had in her own bed, alone.

She's in some other bed -- alone. She lifts her head and sees brighter light glowing under the bathroom door, and relaxes until it opens and Leonard stumbles out. When he crawls back into bed she wriggles close and tangles their feet together, slips her arm around his back. "Hi," she whispers.

"Hey." His voice is husky from sleep. "Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

"S'okay." She touches her lips to his, sighs when he strokes her hip and glides his tongue along her lower lip.

She means just to kiss him and go back to sleep, she does. But one kiss turns into another, him unable to stop and then her, and he slips his fingers between her legs and eases her slowly, with a delicate, deliberate pressure, up towards the most relaxed, soothing orgasm she's ever had. He waits for it to wash over her and for her breathing to even out before turning her gently onto her stomach and canting her hips up and sliding in, easy, slow, fucking her lazily with his body curved over hers and his lips wandering across her shoulder as she buries her face against her arms and moans at each pump of his hips. "Christine, baby," he gasps quietly when he comes. "Oh. God."

She goes back to sleep held close in his arms, warm and thrumming with happiness.

She wakes up with a dull headache and a cottony tongue. Leonard is slung out on his back next to her, deeply asleep; he doesn't move as she gets up and gathers her clothes and tiptoes into the bathroom. Dressed, she gulps a glass of water and rubs toothpaste over her teeth with the tip of a finger, swishes it around to relieve the stale taste. She finds a band in her jeans pocket and ties her hair into a bun that mostly hides what a tangled disaster it is, but just has to live with the red puffiness of her eyes.

He's still sleeping. She's not sure whether she's disappointed or relieved, so she lets him be. She already wishes she could go back and have the night to do over again, or that it had been longer, and she thinks it unwise to have to talk, to say good-bye.

Easier just to leave. Christine takes a long look at the sprawl of his body, and the peaceful set of his features that seems at odds with everything else about him, and she picks up her jacket and slips quietly out.

On the street, she squints into the morning sun as she zips her jacket and thinks through her quickest route back to Canal and to the St. Charles line. After a second she chooses just to head back to Bourbon, shoves her hands in her pockets, and starts walking slowly.

She makes it a block before she hears her name, a sharp call from behind. Turning, she stares in startled shock at Leonard, jogging slowly after her. "Hey," he says, stopping just in front of her. "What the hell?"

Christine blinks up at him. He's rumpled, also in his clothes from the previous night, jaw dark with stubble, and yet the first words that come to her mind are: "oh god, I look like *crap*."

He actually drops his head and laughs at that, a soft chuckle, then one hand comes up and cups her cheek and he kisses her slowly. "Still the prettiest thing I've ever seen," he murmurs. "But how'm I supposed to trade you in if you just run off, hm?"

"Oh god," she groans again. "I forgot. Sorry. I'd've sent it to you, I swear."

He yawns and hooks his arm around the back of her neck. "You need coffee," he says decisively, starting to walk. "And food."

"I was gonna go --"

"I was told noon," he says mildly. "By my watch that gives me time yet before your crazy friend sics anyone on me."

"What're you, holding me hostage?" She watches her feet as they walk, hiding her smile.

"As long as I can without getting in trouble," he agrees. "I'm still debating whether keeping you a little longer is worth the hassle. Seems like it might be."

Christine has to laugh at that. "It's not, I promise you."

"If I weren't leaving tonight, we'd be arguing that."

"If you keep that up, we *will* be arguing about whether you're a sweet-talker again."

He shudders theatrically and kisses the top of her head quickly. "Okay. What do you say I buy you breakfast and you stop making rude accusations."

"God, you *are* a baby. Come on. That place is good."

She drags him into a diner on the corner and a waitress nods them to a booth. Christine expects him to sit across from her, but Leonard drops in right after her and slumps low in the seat. He waves off the menu she slides in front of him. "Order whatever. I'm not picky."

"Everyone's picky," she argues. "Bacon or sausage, oatmeal or grits, pancakes or--"

"Waffles, yeah, yeah." He scrubs his hands over his face. "Make sure some eggs land on the table and I won't argue with anything else."

"Anyone ever tell you it's a bad idea to just hand a woman that much power?"

He slants an odd glance at her. "Exactly the opposite, in fact. Besides, honey, if I had any complaints about the balance of power here, you'd've heard 'em last night."

Christine flushes. "...right." She glances up gratefully as the waitress comes by. "Um. Water and coffee for us both. He'll have three eggs over -"

"Medium," he puts in, dropping his head back on the seat and closing his eyes.

"--over medium, wheat toast, bacon. For me, one egg over easy and a waffle, glass of orange juice. Thanks." Christine elbows Leonard. "You're worse in the mornings than I am."

"I prefer to wake up slow," he mutters. He sits up and turns toward her, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and leaning to nip quickly at her lips. "Take my time about things."

"Sorry to rush you, then," she says with a smile. Everything fades out --the clatter of the kitchen, the clamor of other patrons wandering in from partying well through the night-- as she settles delightedly into his slow, deliberate kiss. "Are you sure you have to leave tonight?" she finally asks, a little breathless. The thought of another night with him, another few rounds of letting him work her over, makes her ache and cross her legs.

"Classes start tomorrow," he says regretfully, sitting back. Christine sighs, disappointed. "Few of us just came out on a whim."

"Right, from Mississippi. You're from there?"

"Georgia, actually. Athens."

"Nice place? I've never been -- well, anywhere."

"I'm partial to it, I suppose. Nowhere?"

"Nope." She plays with her fork, abruptly uncomfortable. "Grew up here. Never traveled. Stayed for college."

He stares at her in disbelief. "And all of a sudden you're enlisting in *Starfleet*."

"Sure, why not?" She forces a bright smile. "I always wanted to get out of here, you know, and I couldn't, so going all the way into space? Best thing I could imagine, and now it's what I *want*. Nothing tying me to this planet, anyway."

"Everyone's got something," he says quietly, his fingers stroking her neck.

"No." She frowns. "Everyone doesn't."

"Hey," he says, and watches her with worry in his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's -- foster kid. Don't worry about it. So what're you gonna do when you're a bigshot doctor?"

He lets it go; she's grateful. "Be anything but a bigshot. Go home, start a practice, start a family. Nothing all that exciting."

"I don't know. Sounds exciting to me. In a disturbing and terrifying way, but still." She laughs, a little to high in her throat to completely belie the sharp pang of envy she feels. For the life he has planned, for the woman who will wind up sharing it with him -- she's not entirely sure what it is. "To each his own."

He doesn't answer that, just waits silently as the waitress returns and sets plates in front of them. Christine's stomach growls at the mere sight of food and she digs in eagerly, grateful as well for the distraction. She wants the purity of her good mood back, wishes her mind would quit chasing after less cheerful thoughts that are putting a damper on what little time they have left.

They eat in silence for a long while, until Christine pushes her plate away and tosses her napkin onto the table, sits back with a sigh. Leonard glances at her, then sets his fork down and drops his hand to her knee, squeezes it lightly. She tenses under his touch, but quickly covers his hand with her own and squeezes in return before he can remove it. "I upset you," he says quietly. "I really am sorry."

She shakes her head. "You didn't. Really, it's not -- it's not that."

He watches her thoughtfully before reaching to snag a blueberry from her abandoned plate. Holding her gaze, he presses the fruit between her lips and his thumb lingers there, pushes lightly into the quick kiss she lays against it. She sighs again and looks away.

"So what is it?"

She stabs her fork into an uneaten piece of waffle and swirls syrup across the plate. "I don't know. I like you, is all." She risks a quick glance at him, flashes a self-deprecating smile at his intent gaze, still trained on her. "Except for the part where you're a jerk for living in Mississippi, of all places. It's getting harder to ignore that I kind of hate that."

"I have to say," he replies, "I know the feeling. You --" He looks away, his face pinched. He looks annoyed. "It's getting late. I think I should get you back."

Christine swallows hard and casts her eyes down, fighting the sudden burn in them. She waits while Leonard slips out of the booth to go pay their check; the thought flits across her mind that she could bail on him and avoid dragging this out even further, just keep her word to send his ID to him.

But she stays put. When he returns, she takes the hand he holds out, lets him tangle their fingers together as he pulls her outside and then allows her to take the lead in drawing him down towards Canal. It takes about half an hour to get to her dorm; she finds herself at a loss for anything to say throughout the trip. She just keeps hold of his hand, and slumps into the crook of his arm on the streetcar, and tries to sort through the conflict of being so completely fond of this guy that she wishes she'd either never met him or he'd been more of a jerk.

This whole damn thing, she thinks as she trudges into her dorm, may have been the one kind of giant mistake she's never properly guarded herself against. She releases his hand outside her room, trains her eyes over his shoulder when she looks up at him. "So...this is me."

"Right." He pulls her in by her shoulders and fingers loose bits of hair away from her face. "Christine...listen, I want to tell you that I --"

"Emily may still be asleep," she blurts. She doesn't know why she needs to stop him, but she does. "I should just..."

The door suddenly jerks open and Emily looms in it, dressed in sweats. "I'm not asleep and it's about damn time you showed up," she says grumpily. She glares at Christine. "Alive, in one piece, well-fucked? Great. I'm going for a run. I'll be back when I feel less like murdering Pete."

Christine stares after her as she storms down the hall, then glances apologetically at Leonard. "Her boyfriend's kind of an asshole," she offers, drawing away from him. "He must have pulled something new." She steps inside and beckons him in. "Let me get your ID."

Glancing around, she finds Emily's clothes from the night before in a heap right next to her bed, and a scattering of the evening's debris -- credit chips, beads, a crumpled slip of paper and, under it all, his card, half-wedged under the lamp. She grabs it and holds it out hesitantly until he comes close enough to take it, slip it into his back pocket.

He doesn't move. She bites her lip and stares at him. "So," she says unhappily. "I guess you have to go."

He scrubs one hand through his messy hair. "Right," he mutters, staring right back at her. "I should go." He trails off; his face registers a swift succession of feelings, irritation and indecisiveness and, underneath it all, what she's come to recognize as the tug of his desire. "Oh, damn it all to hell."

Then he's on her in one long stride, pulling her close, kissing her bruisingly hard. She grabs at his shoulders and returns the same force, the same need; she can't help it, not with the sudden surge of -- of frantic, consuming want. He sucks hard on her tongue and stumbles the few steps to her bed, falls with her onto it. As he sits back on his heels and wrestles with her jeans she digs an abandoned PADD out from under her back, drops it carelessly onto the floor, and the second he has her jeans off she drags him back down to her, kisses him hungrily with no regard for his struggle to get his own jeans open and shoved down.

He enters her with a single hard thrust, sets immediately to fucking her determinedly, desperately, with long, sure strokes. His mouth travels clumsily across her jaw, her neck, stubble scratching across her skin and setting her ablaze. He shoves a hand between them and rubs her clit firmly and she can't bother playing, can't waste time resisting the words that spill out of her. "Please," she gasps, and pushes into every unrelenting snap of his hips. "God, Leonard, please, I need it, more - I need --"

"That's it," he groans against her throat. "Good girl, tell me what you want, let me hear you-"

Christine squeezes her eyes shut. "Fuck, fuck -- just, harder... oh god, like that, don't - don't-- stop, *please* don't stop, I need, I need you, please --"

He flicks his fingers and she comes, sobbing in relief as he hooks her legs into the crooks of his arms and goes for his own release. After he gets it he collapses on top of her, stays there for a moment before rolling heavily to the side and taking her with him, spread over him like a rag doll. His hands rub up and down along her back, under her shirt. "Damn it," he mutters. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she mumbles, and rests her cheek on his chest and closes her eyes. "Don't you dare be sorry."

His ribs expand with a deep breath. "Even that I have to go?"

"Not yet." She shifts, kisses him lazily. "Just a little longer?"

"Okay."

She dozes off somehow, under the soothing caress of his hands, but snaps back to awareness when he eases her onto her back and withdraws. "Can you get back all right?" she asks, watching him button his jeans. "I could come with you, make sure you don't get lost."

He smiles and leans over to catch her mouth. "Much as more time with you would be great... I'll be okay. You should get some sleep."

"I hate sleeping during the day." She gets up and grabs her robe from the back of a chair, tugs it on and follows him to the door. "So..."

"So," he echoes, his hand poised over the controls. "If you ever find yourself in Jackson -- you know, before you run off to California to be a space cadet."

Christine smiles softly at his teasing wink. "Yeah, maybe.... Take care of yourself, Leonard, okay?"

He nods shortly, and then he's gone. She moves to the window and watches until he emerges and trudges down the street, until she can no longer see him.

Then she grabs a towel and goes to get on with her day.


End file.
